


Attrition

by thatrandomnpc



Series: MadaTobi Week 2018 [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Day 2 Office Shenanigans, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 14:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15487788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatrandomnpc/pseuds/thatrandomnpc
Summary: If Tobirama thinks he can get away with turning polite gestures into a war of attrition, two can play that game.After all, Uchiha Madara cut his teeth on petty spite. Tobirama has no idea of the hornet’s nest he’d just disturbed.(Or the one in which Tobirama accidentally spites his way into a war of passive-aggressive, office gift giving.)





	Attrition

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! Here's my attempt at something a little more comedic. Posting a bit early since I have a jam packed schedule this week. Once again, I don't really have time to proof through this as thoroughly as I'd like, so please excuse the excessive typos! (I really am going to edit these as soon as possible, but this week is a little nuts for me.) Really looking forward to seeing everyone's awesome work this evening! :D

It starts with a bottle of sake.

Well, technically, it starts with the fourth yelling match in the middle of the newly-made Hokage Tower in as many days. Madara doesn’t see what the problem is. At least he and Tobirama hadn’t actually come to blows that time, which is more than the original office desk, now sitting in splinters in someone’s firewood pile, could attest to. Hashirama hadn’t seen it that way though. Stubborn bastard had even had the nerve to include Madara in his moping, puppy-eyed speech about cooperation, dreams, and lost little brothers.

Hashirama’s Hell-spawn of a little brother had naturally shut his mouth and finally deferred to his elder. Izuna mostly avoided meeting anyone’s eyes for the next five minutes, and Madara had… technically followed suit. Because he wanted to, of course: not because Hashirama’s moping combined with the memory of their losses was an irritatingly potent combination.

(Madara mostly thinks Hashirama is still sore over the desk to have made such a low blow. And, yes… he’s mildly impressed at the underhanded tactic, even if it still stunk of Hashirama’s genuine sincerity.

Perhaps the Uzumaki demon he calls a bride has been a little good for him after all, much to Madara’s chagrin.)

So, all-in-all, it’s perhaps more accurate to say that the sake is what escalates it.

Madara questions his own sanity when Tobirama places the bottle on the middle of the table. He’s wondering if pieces of the sky are falling when the prickly bastard causally launches into an exceptionally formal (clearly recited) handful of sentences that boil down to ‘peace offering.’ By the time he consciously acknowledges that the words ‘build positive relations’ (Hashirama’s own from two days ago, verbatim) have come out of Tobirama’s mouth without a negative, he thinks absently about a mission he undertook at seven to replace the wax seal on a bottle of imported wine after poisoning it.

The local lord had died, choking on his own blood, without figuring out what the hell was going on.

Poisoning the hated head of a clan only recently the enemy right in front of Hashirama would be incredibly sloppy. No matter how infuriating he is, Senju Tobirama is not sloppy. Madara can see Izuna crossing out the same possibility in his head though.

Good. At least he doesn’t need to beat sense into his brother’s head for temporarily forgetting that this very man had very nearly sealed his death, and Madara’s whole world with it, not so long ago.

All suspicions of poison are gone when Tobirama proceeds to causally pour drinks for everyone in the room. Hashirama is in near hysterics from the joy and virtually _glittering_ with pride. The Uzumaki witch is deceptively placid as always. She inspects the cup curiously, “An extravagant gesture, Tobirama. Very fitting.”

She raises an imperious brow at Madara, who scowls right back. He takes his damn time fulfilling the unspoken command just for spite. As politeness dictates, he picks up the offered bottle to pour Tobirama’s cup, not at all convinced yet that this isn’t going to end with a room of very dead village administration.

It’s… a surprisingly expensive brand. Madara isn’t one for overindulgence—not when his clear-headed leadership meant the difference between life and death for Uchiha shinobi against the Senju—but he’s heard of what a bottle of Lightening Country sake goes for on the open market. If it were anyone else, it would’ve been a decent gesture.

Madara’s suspicion skyrockets impossibly higher. He edges as close to overflowing the cup as he can without it literally pouring over the edges.

Tobirama only raises a brow but otherwise continues on with the farce. He raises his cup slightly, “To a future of generosity between our clans.”

Returning the gesture, Madara watches suspiciously as he tilts the cup back…

…and immediately chokes on the burn that hits harder than a botched katon. The successive gulp of air has the unfortunate side effect of sending more of the wretched liquid down the wrong way.

By the time Madara registers Izuna’s hand thumping his back, his damn tongue is numb from the overpowering, wretched taste, and they’re down one sake cup. The little bastard is laughing at him. Madara immediately amends his previous assessment about beating sense into his brother.

(Maybe not, though, since clearly he hadn’t been stupid enough to gulp down a cup of rot-gut sake strong enough to strip the lacquer right off Hashirama’s latest desk.)

At least Hashirama is choking and sputtering, the same as Madara. Small miracles. Then again, once he has oxygen flowing to his brain again, it’s easy to see this is Tobirama’s way of killing two birds with a single stone, and Hashirama had been a very intentional target. Parroting Hashirama’s speech should’ve been the dead give-away.

Madara, having recovered faster, turns his accusing scowl on Tobirama.

Tobirama, who tilts the cup back and drains the rest of whatever thrice-damned concoction he’s trying to pass off as fine alcohol. He makes a considering noise and eyes the puddle of spilled sake and shattered porcelain on the floor next to Madara’s foot, “I’d heard Uchiha could handle their alcohol. Disappointing.”

Naturally Mito, their only professional diplomat, has been entirely unaffected just the same. She sets her own empty cup down in a deceptively dainty move. “A shame. I was looking forward to testing that as well.”

Oh, Madara knows what they’re playing at now: this is just another excuse to look down their noses at the Uchiha. Well, fine. Two can play that game, he decides, snatching Mito’s cup from the table. He disregards propriety and Hashirama’s feeble attempt from the floorboards to convince Madara to spare himself and pours another cup. Izuna doesn’t stop him because he’s too busy clamping his teeth down on the laughter that’s dying to get out as Madara throws back the whole damn cup and forces himself to tap down his self-preservation instincts long enough to swallow.

It makes his eyes water. He slams his hand down on the table and clamps down on the cough that tries to force its way up. But dammit, he drinks it and sets his face into what he hopes is more scowl than wince.

Tobirama’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. Good. Madara hopes moving his damn face into something that isn’t the usual sour look gives him a migraine.

“Gesture accepted, Senju,” he growls, “To a long, _enlightening_ exchange.” If it’s slightly more effective than usual due to the burn in his throat, he likes to think it suits the situation well. Especially when Tobirama’s Sharingan-colored eyes narrow right back to meet the veiled challenge.

If Tobirama thinks he can get away with turning polite gestures into a war of attrition, two can play that game.  

After all, Uchiha Madara cut his teeth on petty spite. Tobirama has no idea of the hornet’s nest he’d just disturbed.

  
  


Grand schemes of revenge aside, Madara is intimately aware of the fact that his clanmates are, for the most part, somewhat wary of him. He doesn’t often wonder what life would be like without Izuna and his charisma there to act as a buffer between Madara and the rest of the Uchiha (mostly because imagining life without Izuna in general is unthinkable at the best of times). There’s no point in thinking out ‘what ifs’ when the reality of building a village is singularly time-consuming as it is.

Regardless, he’s well aware that his own impromptu circle of confidants (‘war council’ Izuna melodramatically labels it) consists of an incredibly limited pool of advisors. Hashirama is out for the obvious reasons, as he’s unintentionally made himself the unwitting judge of how well they can pass off these exchanges as sincere. Mito is out because she clearly favors her brother-in-law over her husband’s closest friend. Touka is similarly out because he has the distinct feeling she would rat them both out to Hashirama to save herself and Mito the headache.

What Madara cannot understand is how the hell Fumihiro’s brat ends up sitting next to Izuna conveniently over dinner while they’re supposed to be discussing the plan of action.

Madara scowls back and forth between Kagami and Izuna throughout most of dinner. Izuna sips his tea casually with all the years of practice of ignoring Madara’s paranoid gaze, and Kagami is too busy alternatively shuffling with too much bottled energy and stuffing his face to fuel said twitching all over again. Madara isn’t entirely convinced Izuna hasn’t turned filthy traitor at this point. He’s always had a fondness for pretty, deadly things almost as much as he has a fondness driving Madara’s blood pressure through the ceiling.

Finally, Madara’s temper snaps, and he addresses the teenager direction, “Kagami, why are you here?”

Kagami meets his eyes, confused but not uneasy. Apparently the shuffling isn’t so much a nervous thing as it is a Kagami thing. “…For dinner?” he replies in a tone that says he’s wondering if this is a trick question.

Madara sets his sights on Izuna, who is too busy ‘savoring’ his tea to pay attention. Alright. Apparently Izuna has left the poor brat to flounder on his own. So much for Uchiha solidarity. “Did Izuna tell you why he invited to dinner?” he tries again, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Kagami nods. “The section of housing I’m supposed to be moving into isn’t finished yet,” he explains with that easy-going tone that has always seemed oddly out of place among his clanmates, much less blooded shinobi, “Izuna said I should stay a few days until then.” Madara frowns because he’s certain Kagami is referring to the square of space in the Uchiha district metered out to orphans of the war who are both old enough to have been soldiers—and therefore considered adult shinobi by the old clan terms—but also too young by the new village standards to entirely support themselves.

(He’d been horrified at the size of the land plot Tobirama had come up with as necessary for it and the similar structures needed for Senju children. For once, no one yelled in argument on either side.)

Madara also knows that Fumihiro had had more than a little hand providing some of the affection to Izuna that their father would not--could not--show. It hardly surprises him that Izuna then feels somewhat responsible for providing something similar to his son.

The thoughts somber the mood until Izuna finally sets down his tea, “Kagami has recently badgered Tobirama into agreeing to teach him.” When Madara narrows his eyes, Izuna rolls his and sets an encouraging hand on Kagami’s shoulder. The ‘innocent’ grin is what gets Madara. Nothing good has ever come of it. “Since you and Tobirama are so determined to make nice with each other, I figured Kagami’s insider knowledge about what his sensei likes would be invaluable.”

There are so many things wrong with those two sentences, Madara reels with where to actually start. He decides that he should probably begin with wondering when the hell Izuna began addressing the man very nearly responsible for his death by his given name.

“Sensei likes jutsu and painting,” Kagami says helpfully, “And books. Sensei _really_ likes books.”

Madara is unfortunately _incredibly_ familiar with Senju Tobirama’s overzealous reading habits. The bastard never fails to cite his sources when questioned. What catches his attention, rather, is comment about painting. That, he thinks with a malicious smile, he can use.

He bides his time for several weeks. After all, while he very much relishes the idea of putting the bastard in his place, his duties to his clan and village require the majority of his time. He only finds the perfect piece on a diplomatic trip outside of the village. When Madara smirks and points to the atrocity of offensively bright colors, the shop owner responds with a dubious look. “...are you certain that’s what you want?” she asks.

“Absolutely,” Madara replies.

Hikaku looks vaguely ill at the sight of the clashing, nonsensical patterns. _Perfect_.

Madara proudly carries the monstrocity to the administrative tower, right up the stairs, and drops it on Tobirama’s desk with a satisfying _thump_. Hashirama, who has risen to greet Madara, pauses and turns a curious, hopeful glance toward him instead. “What is this?” Tobirama demands, eyeing the back of the canvis.

“I hear you have an interest in art,” Madara replies, “I assumed it was only polite to repay you for your _considerate_ peace offering.”

Tobirama eyes the offending piece as though he expects it to explode on contact. Not entirely outside of the realm of Madara’s skill set, but he’s hardly that obvious. “Kagami.”

Madara blinks, momentarily thrown off. He glances over his shoulder, but the boy isn’t anywhere in sight.

Tobirama is watching him, obvious unhappy. “Kagami mistook my seals for artwork two weeks ago,” he explains, “I have no interest in personally collecting artwork outside of my studies and sentimental pieces.”

Hashirama flutters over to the pair of them, fully enthused now. “You liked those shells in Uzushio,” he says cheerfully as Tobirama sighs and gives in to unwrapping the blasted thing, “Come now, little brother. I’m certain Madara has… good… tastes…”

Madara has been a shinobi far too long to not know how to properly restrain a vengeful smile as Hashirama’s voice trails off. Tobirama arches a fine brow at his brother as if to ask him if he was so certain of that now.

“It… is certainly something, Madara,” Hashirama says with a poorly hidden wince, “Very… _colorful_.” His gaze hasn’t moved quite yet. Madara isn’t entirely sure he’s blinked yet. As amusing as he finds his old friend earning every second of the retribution he brought on himself for playing mediator, he supposes he will feel somewhat guilty if he’s accidentally blinded Hashirama.

“Perhaps I should mount it on the wall as a symbol of the current standing of the relations between our clans,” the younger Senju replies dryly.

Izuna snorts from his own personal alcove because Izuna is a brat and a traitor.

The painting somehow ends up on the wall by the end of the end of the afternoon. Madara _feels_ his blood pressure rising each time someone enters the office only to be stunned into silence by the spectacle of colors hanging above their heads. Then again… in retrospect, he isn’t entirely adverse to _that_ particular side effect, given the chaos that too often finds its way to the offices of the village founders.

It’s merely that Tobirama seems singularly immune to it that infuriates Madara.

Kagami, he decides, is fired.

  
  


Three weeks later, there is a scroll on his desk. Not entirely unusual. As one of the co-founders of the village, Madara often receives reports on various activities in the village--more so after taking on some on Hashirama’s mounting responsibilities. Madara admires the man, certainly, but Hashirama’s cheerful, lenient disposition simply isn’t suited of the harsher realities of keeping a shinobi village running.

This scroll, however, is not a report. It’s small and unassuming but large enough to be considered unwieldy by any shinobi in the field. Something civilian, he suspects and activates his Sharingan to look for traps.

(He hardly considers it paranoia when someone attempted to unsuccessfully assassinate Hashirama, ending the attempt with an impromptu shot at strangulation via a curtain three weeks ago. Nevermind that the attempt had been enough to send both Izuna and Mito into peels of laughter. Even Tobirama, the icy bastard, had cracked a smile at his indignantly huffing brother. Touka had been irate, of course, that Hashirama had hardly taken the threat seriously, but she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off of the cloth Hashirama worried between his fingers during her scolding either.

Some part of Madara wonders what it means that they all so accustomed to grief and violence as to find humor in an _assassination attempt,_ but he dismisses it to the realm of philosophy.)

When he finds none, he opens the scroll.

 _“Appreciation of Art: Techniques of Ethical Artistic Criticism and Evaluation_ ” stares back at him in bold calligraphy.

When Madara shifts to glare at Tobirama, the Senju merely raises a brow expectantly but says nothing. Were Hashirama not sitting less than six feet away, he would burn the thing to ash just for the petty satisfaction. Instead, he scowls and pointedly shoves it into the drawer of his desk, where the places everything else he intends to conveniently ignore.

The damn self-satisfied smirk he catches on the Senju’s face is the final straw.

He pointedly storms into the market the following evening and funnels a fraction of his diplomatic pay into a painting of the ocean to prove that he can, in fact, see. He justifies it with the open surprise he spots on Tobirama’s face when he sees the painting waiting on his desk. Fair brows lift toward his hairline, and his lips part as red eyes scan over the piece.

When the suspicious glance comes his way, Madara smiles, narrow-eyed and satisfied.

Naturally, when another bottle of sake shows up on his desk less than a week later, Madara is suspicious. That Hashirama seems _thrilled_ about the brand hardly settles those suspicions. He tricks Izuna into taking the first taste by claiming that _he_ had, in fact, purchased the bottle.

The little brat gets off free when the sake turns out to be… surprisingly good.

Madara simmers his irritation and refuses to mention that he drinks the whole bottle within the month.

  
  


Madara somehow earns the dubious honor of accompanying Mito as a glorified honor guard for her annual trip to Uzushio. While he expects that she’s fully capable of handling any threats on the journey alone, he can’t imagine her grandmother would be too pleased at the idea of her beloved grandchild travelling without being shown proper decorum and respect.

It isn’t difficult to see why the younger Senju brother is so drawn to the Land of Whirlpools. Even Madara, who is entirely ambivillient to the ocean, finds the scenery appealing. Izuna finds the trip far more enjoyable, but then… he _has_ always been fond of deadly redheads.

Madara is attempting to ignore his brother flirting with one of Mito’s cousins when he happens to glance at the right moment to see them. An older couple sits at the edge of an outcropping with brushes, shells, and paint spread out between them.

He frowns and glances at Mito, who has just finished speaking with the head of one of the other local clans. “I was under the impression you discouraged tourism,” he says, tilting his head toward the couple.

Mito follows his gesture but nods. “Grandmother is wary of outsiders,” she admits, “But that is a common hobby--not an economic venture.”

Madara frowns consideringly. He thinks of the surprise on Tobirama’s face at the painting. It had been, after all, far preferably to the smug, self-satisfied twist of his lips.

“If you’d like one,” Mito says, amusement clear in her tone, “I can arrange my cousin to bring one for you.”

Madara nods stiffly on a whim.

He regrets it the moment he sees what Mito brings him. He scowls his disapproval of the shining shell, painted with elegant patterns just a hair away from the lines of complex fuinjutsu. Madara, who has little interest in seals outside of the convenience of storage scrolls and exploding tags, is very obviously not the target of this particular piece.

“I should tell him you’ve switched to Hashirama’s side,” Madara threatens.

Mito responds with a bland look that is far too similar to her brother-in-law’s for Madara’s sanity. If a stranger were asked, he thinks, they would probably assume that Mito and Tobirama are the siblings while Hashirama married into the family. Assuming one hadn’t seen the brothers pout, of course. “I’m on my own side, Uchiha,” she reminds him, “Tobirama is already aware of that.”

The shell sits in Madara’s room after they return home. He takes to glaring at it in his spare time, particularly on those days in which Mito seems especially smug.

  
  


An assassination attempt inevitably goes sideways.

In all fairness, Madara is more than a match for the assassin… were they fighting on fair terms. This one more clever than the rest, however, and he forces Madara into a corner, protecting both a poisoned Hashirama _(who really should be waking up any minute now, the lazy bastard, because Madara_ refuses _to be believe Hashirama can be brought down with_ poison) and a group of terrified Academy children.

In the end, he successfully brings the bastard down with relative expedience. He’s injured defending the children who try to run, but what concerns him more is the blurriness at the edge of his vision. If the assassin managed to find something strong enough to knock down Hashirama, he has no doubt that the assassin’s weapons were coated in it. As far as he’d sensed earlier, there are three more attackers spread across the village.

He stumbles when Touka and her squad arrive. He’s almost surprised it’s her arm that guides him into sitting rather than falling humiliatingly on his face in front of a punch of pre-teens. Even sluggish as he is, the Shargian picks up the small splash of blood against her armor. Not hers. A good sign. “Poison,” he warns, “How many more?”

“We dispatched one,” she reports, “Mito dealt with another, and Tobirama is engaged with the last one.” With Hashirama temporarily down, he supposes that he is technically acting hokage… for as long as he remains conscious anyway. She pulls off a glove and touches his forehead. Her hand is disconcertingly warm. The stern frown isn’t pleased. “You’re going to the hospital.”

“Hashirama first,” he mutters, making a lazy gesture at the unconscious oaf, “Must’ve slipped it in his tea.” Shit. It isn’t his first run-in with poison, but it’s been long enough since someone managed to get close enough that he truly begins to appreciate the reprieve.

“Madara!”

That would be Izuna. Five minutes too late, Madara wants to scold him, but his tongue is beginning to feel rather numb, and he’d prefer not to look like more of a fool than he already does.

He passes out somewhere in the middle of Touka’s grumbling about overly dramatic Uchiha.

  
  


He wakes up feeling as though he’d been fool enough to accept Hashirama’s challenge to a drinking contest again. Cheating bastard. He never played fair with those damn puppy eyes.

His throat is dry, he’s hungry, and his head refuses to cease the impractical rhythm hammering away behind his eyes. His shoulder aches, but that much is relative. Even now, in relative peace, his body hasn’t forgotten how to categorize the sharp bite of a stab wound and mindfully shift his attention elsewhere.

He opens his eyes and frowns when he remembers why the roof is not that of the healer’s building back on Uchiha land.

He can’t imagine why a Senju would be there, after all, placidly arranged with scrolls, writing utensils, and forms spread out rudely across the unoccupied space at Madara’s feet.

Then again, Madara can’t imagine why Senju Tobirama would be in his room in Konoha’s hospital either. Unless…

Madara snaps up with a hiss, ignoring the way the world spins for a moment. He hears Tobirama’s noise of protest, but he ignores that as well in his attempt to look around.

There is no Hashirama in the room. He settles a demanding gaze at Tobirama. Far too calm for something serious to have happened to Hashirama, he knows. He may be a merciless bastard, but… Tobirama clearly cares for his older brother.

“Hashirama is fine,” Tobirama explains. The fact that he can so clearly read the question is perhaps… disconcerting. The Senju sighs and folds up the scroll in his hands. “Brother’s constitution is singularly adept at detoxification; he was awake and fretting over you by the afternoon.”

Madara frowns. If something took Hashirama down for several _hours_ , well…

He’s probably fortunate to have received a presumably lesser dose.

“Izuna?” he asks. His voice is rough. He frowns. The last time injuries put him off his feet for over a day was… years ago, he thinks. When he was still a teenager.

“Sleeping for the first time two days,” Tobirama replies, now gathering the mess spread at Madara’s without a single apology or ounce of shame, “I’m to wake him and inform Hashirama now that you’re responsive.”

Madara frowns at the implication. Apparently this is not the first time he’s been awake, even if it is the first he’s been coherent. That’s an unpleasant thought.

Madara has had enough of a blow to his pride for one day that he decides that should be the end of it. More than that, though, he’s exhausted in a way he hasn’t been in over a decade.

Tobirama pauses for a moment at the door. “I was wrong about you, Uchiha,” he says, “You nearly died for those children and my brother. Thank you.”

...Madara is far too old and already in enough lingering pain to pinch himself to ensure this isn’t some sort of poison-induced fever dream, but the temptation remains.

At least until a sobbing, apologetic Hashirama very nearly crushes his ribs anyway.

  
  


When he returns to his office two days later against the express wishes of the entire hospital staff, he frowns suspiciously at the small vial sitting there. Hashirama and Mito are having ‘date night’ that evening, and it’s Izuna turn on patrol duty (apparently something that was unanimously insisted upon after this latest attack). Tobirama is there, naturally, because Madara begins to suspect the man is hiding a futon somewhere in his desk rather than an actual home to return to.

“A general antidote,” Tobirama says without bothering to look up from his work, “It’s currently inadequate against most biological toxins, but it should neutralize or lessen symptoms of the three most popular poisons among shinobi. Those are made from the same plant extract, fortunately.”

Madara stares, entirely taken aback. There’s no difference in tone or posture. Nothing that makes Tobirama seem more or less at ease than usual. If anything, the explanation sounds like more of a side note to his work than a focus of his attention.

“You made this?” Madara asks, tilting the colorless liquid curiously.

A fair brow lifts incredulously, “Does that surprise you?”

No. They have coexisted long enough to know that Hashirama’s boasts about his brother’s intelligence are hardly just the ramblings of a proud older brother.

Madara pockets the vial and collects work to take home. Izuna will no doubt badger him into resting in his bed for the next day at least, and he’d prefer to have something to work on stashed away. He has never entirely known what to do with himself when he isn’t planning the next phase of a war or building a village. Madara is, after all, very much a creature born, bred, and tempered for fighting.

He collects his things in relative silence and leaves without incident.

When he inevitably runs out of work to do on the first afternoon, he sneaks out while Izuna is distracted, cooking for Kagami.

He leaves the painted shell on Tobirama’s desk on a whim.

He glares at Mito, who smiles far too pleasantly at him when he returns several days later, only to realize the shell has only moved the several inches required to migrate to the picture, one of the first taken in the village, that Senju Tobirama keeps at the only clean corner of his workspace.

  
  


A bout of sickness spreads through the village as fall gives way to winter. Madara isn’t unfamiliar with organizing efforts to protect the most vulnerable--the children and elderly--from being swept up in the outbreak. It’s similar enough to handling a familiar crisis most clans dealt with prior to the village, if on a larger, more concentrated scale.

For a week, Hashirama trades in his hokage robes to play the role of healer among the more dire cases. Madara and Mito divide his work between themselves to relieve the strain.

Tobirama is absent from the office as well.

“He’s been working with the healers,” Izuna says when Madara points as much out, “They’re attempting to find a treatment that doesn’t rely on chakra.”

He’s more than a little surprised, then, when he spots Tobirama that afternoon, well within the Uchiha compound. It takes a second or two longer than he would’ve liked to notice that he carries Kagami.

Madara frowns and marches over. “What happened?”

Tobirama shifts the boy in his arms to secure the bag over his shoulder but Kagami barely stirs. There’s an unhealthy flush to his cheeks, and he’s sweating. “He’s ill. I suspect he caught it from Saru,” Tobirama replies, but it isn’t that mocking ‘ _Can you not see?_ ’ tone that Madara anticipates. Concern pinches the Senju’s features. “I’ll be staying until he’s well. I can finish the remainder of my work here.”

Madara raises a brow. That is… not entirely unexpected of Tobirama, he supposes. No matter Madara’s original perceptions otherwise, the man is dedicated to ensuring his growing batch of students are cared for. He nods, eyeing Kagami, “Find Izuna if you need something. Playing curier again might be good for his ego.”

In all, he isn’t surprised when Hashirama arrives at the office less than a week later, haggard and worn-looking. For all Hashirama’s inhuman chakra stores, he’s been healing virtually non-stop for the past two weeks. It’s taking a toll on him. “Tobirama caught it from Kagami,” he sighs when no one asks, “Touka had to push him back to bed. He wanted to _work_ like that.”

Madara glances at the pile of paperwork that has steadily been growing on the younger Senju’s desk. He’s more than aware, from the number of irritated comments in the few hours that Tobirama had spared to be at his desk since the outbreak, that he isn’t pleased at the prospect of allowing his work to back up like that.

With a frown, he stands up and grabs the first stack of papers. Hashirama stares at him as though he’s lost his mind. Madara smiles, far too politely, when he pushes the stack into Hashirama’s arms. He ignores the overly dramatic look of abject fear in Hashirama’s dark eyes as he goes to collect another stack for himself. Research and development isn’t typically his forte. He skips those for Mito, who is far better suited to that, to handle when she returns from patrol. Trade petitions, however, he can manage.

Hashirama is still standing there like an oaf when Madara settles back at his desk. “What?” the Uchiha demands.

“...Tobirama is very particular about his work,” Hashirama points out.

Madara rolls his eyes. “If anyone is acutely aware of your brother’s opinions, it’s me.” Hashirama is still staring at him. Madara bristles and pointedly focuses his attention on the forms in front of him. “You _do_ realize this is technically _your_ job, correct?”

Hashirama makes a curious noise that Madara would rather not interpret. “It’s not that,” he says, expression shifting into that pitiful pout that Madara no longer gives the time of day to, “Do you think so little of me, Madara?” The Uchiha in question lifts his eyes long enough to pin Hashirama with a dull, long-suffering stare before he begins working on the first form with perhaps a bit more force than he intends. Hashirama clears his throat and finally settles down behind his own desk. “You know… I always wondered what it would be like if you married into my family…”

Madara does _not_ sputter because he is _not_ a child anymore.

He also pointedly does _not_ explain the suspiciously kunai blade-shaped hole in the wall next to Hashirama’s head when Izuna returns either.

He does, however, say nothing when Tobirama inevitably sneaks into the administrative tower two days later. The last lingerings of illness make his typically graceful movements sluggish and weary-looking. It takes him a moment longer than usual to notice the sudden lack of paperwork left on his suspiciously clean desktop. He frowns at it as though he isn’t entirely convinced that he isn’t hallucinating, and Madara bites back a smug smirk.

“Looking for something?” he asks, the picture of innocence.

Naturally, that sends Tobirama’s paranoia into action. “What did you do?” he demands.

Madara lifts a brow. “Your work,” he replies dismissively, “Was that not obvious?”

He expects anger or frustration. Perhaps even a list of demands explaining how he’d dealt with each individual situation. Instead, Tobirama braces himself against his desk with one hand, closes his eyes for a moment, and breathes a sigh of what sounds suspiciously like relief.

Madara turns the majority of his attention back to finishing his own work for the night. That sort of vulnerability on such a proud man… Witnessing it feels… odd. Not unpleasant but certainly unfamiliar. “Go home, Senju,” Madara says, “Despite what you may think, the village won’t implode if you’re absent for a few days.”

He pointedly ignores the pleasant sense of satisfaction at sight of the small, understated smile that pulls at Tobirama’s lips.

It is unfortunately attractive.

  
  


After the crisis is, for the most part, averted, circumstances once again find Madara and Tobirama staying late in the office to finish their collaboration on the standards for the chuunin exam. Madara finds, as he has more often as of late, that curiosity gets the better of him.

“How did you manage to stomach that sake?”

Tobirama pauses and glances up. A slow, smug smirk disrupts the stern lines of his previous concentration. “I didn’t,” he replies shamelessly. When Madara scowls incredulously, open amusement begins to show through the cracks of his severe demeanor. “There are jutsu to give the illusion drinking without actually doing so.”

Madara… gapes. But only a _little_. “You,” he declares, “are worse than Izuna.”

Red eyes shift back to the document finalizing the details of the overall plan. That soft, amused smile has not vanished yet, and Madara finds his eyes lingering on it. “Someone had to find a way to keep brother in line.”

  
  


It isn’t the last time those small exchanges take place amid the decreasingly vicious arguments. Small things. Always filled with the trappings of minor bickering. Madara… enjoys it. Hashirama’s companionship has always been fairly easy, in part, he suspects, because Hashirama is disturbingly adept at embracing people, rough edges and all. Rough edges Madara has in spades. Izuna is on an entirely different level. Their kinship is of blood, both shared and shed.

Tobirama is something else. They initially introduced each other to the worst parts of themselves. Where Hashirama sees the best in them both, they’re very much aware of their own more brutal, ruthless tendencies. Madara is not a good man--not in the way Hashirama is--and he never will be.

Tobirama knows that. Seems to have accepted that Madara’s worst has been focused on those that would seek to harm the village, his clan, or his loved ones rather than anyone inside the village.

It takes time for him to consider his next actions. He debates the idea of moving forward and comes to the conclusion that he doesn't mind the idea as much as he initially might have. He's still rolling the thought around when Tobirama comes back from a mission in full, blood stained armor and a dark look in his eyes.

He deposits something on Madara's desk that is decidedly far too bloody to be a mission report.

“What the hell is this?” Madara demands.

He’s hardly one to deny his own senses. Even without the Sharingan, he’s very much aware of what’s sitting on his desk. The idea of being caught in an undetectable genjutsu is, at best, laughable. It isn’t the identity of physical object he demands an answer to but rather what the ‘hell is going on?’ he expects the situation warrants.

Tobirama frowns incredulously, as though he is the one being unreasonable, “That is a sword.”

Madara stares blandly. “I’m aware of that,” he replies dryly, "Why is it bleeding on my desk?"

"You were supposed to head this mission originally, were you not?" Tobirama demands, voice tense and angry. Madara is... unsure of why.

"Yes," he replies warily. He had fully intended to take the mission, but Hashirama had been called away to deal with the disaster brewing to the west, and Madara, assumed to be his successor, had been forced to step into the temporary role of Hokage. Tobirama, instead, took on the mission, meaning he should be very much aware of the circumstances. "You haven't answered my question."

"Someone set a trap," Tobirama says, "For you."

Madara blinks, attention now fully pulled from the mess quickly spreading onto his desk. "How do you know it was intended for me?"

The Senju scowls. He looks positively fearsome like this, clearly relatively fresh from battle. He smells of smoke and forests. The low light of the evening throws his pale hair and red eyes into stark contrast with the shadows lingering in the nearly empty office.

Madara is very much paying attention now.

"The mercenary used a volatile compound intended to induce temporary blindness," Tobirama explains tersely. His eyes narrow dangerously. Furious. Is should not be attractive, but then... the Uchiha have been a shinobi clan long enough that there is a fine, muddied line between 'deadly' and 'appealing.' "Only a fool would assume I would be at all hampered by a lack of sight."

Ah. Well. That does sound far too suspicious to be coincidence. Infuriating as well. Madara is entirely capable of fighting blind, though perhaps not to the extent of Tobirama.

"That still doesn't explain why you've brought me a would-be assassin's bloody sword," Madara points out. He gives into a whim and picks up the blade, examining it with a raised brow. The workmanship seems reminiscent of something from the north, and yet… something about it seems off. He’ll need to have it examined by one of the smiths, but he somehow thinks that the familiar design is intended to throw him off the trail. He meets Tobirama's red gaze with a curiously quirked brow. “You do understand what something like this implies to an Uchiha?”

Tobirama’s scowl is at least a bit less violent. A shame, that. Madara was rather enjoying it. “You’re more concerned with the implication of a desire for courtship than the fact that someone means to kill you.” His tone is dry. Utterly unimpressed. 

Madara rolls his eyes, leans back, and sets the sword back on his desk. “I’m curious why _you_ seem so concerned with it,” he counters smugly, “You were aware this isn’t the first time someone was foolish enough to attempt to assassinate me?” That they attacked Tobirama instead means that they are either poorly informed, have never met an Uchiha in their lives, or are desperate. Likely the latter. Catching a village founder outside of the village is an unfortunately rare thing these days. 

Tobirama bristles, folding his arms across his chest. Madara bites his lip when the man tilts his head toward the side, scowl folding into an all too familiar pout. “You are taking an open declaration of warfare against our village far too lightly.”

“Would you rather I rouse the council from their beds?” he asks dryly. 

When Tobirama’s scowl deepens, Madara takes that as his answer. The Senju turns on heel and makes to storm toward the door. “You,” he grumbles, “are _insufferable_.”

Perhaps it’s that Madara is a bit too pleased with the strange defensiveness over his person, or perhaps he hasn’t had enough sleep in the past two days. Regardless, he glances at the hideous painting that they’ve somehow all become inexplicably fond of and and the painted shell that still sits on Tobirama’s desk.

“Senju,” he calls, relishing in the fact that the man stops in the doorways without hesitation even if he doesn’t degn to turn around and face Madara, “You can start by buying me more of that sake. The one that doesn’t taste like paint thinner.”

Under the armor, it’s virtually impossible to see the majority of Tobirama’s tells from the back, but he thinks the moment of hesitation before the door slams shut is enough.

More than that, however, is the premium bottle of local brew sitting on his desk the next morning. Tobirama’s flushed embarrassment is almost worth Hashirama’s insufferable swooning.


End file.
